In the Shadow of the Toll Bridge

by Nikstlitslepmur

AU: Something DID jog the memory of our favorite prince that night...but it wasn't the windmill. What would have happened if David Nolan had remembered his REAL life instead of his fake one that fateful night in Gold's shop? What would have happened if David and Mary Margaret had awoken long before anyone else and been left to deal with the monumental task of breaking the curse?

23. Into the Fold

DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

Into the Fold

The Daily Mirror

December 5, 2011

Good Samaritans help new deputy save local teacher from bizarre kidnapping

By Sidney Glass

Deputy Sheriff Emma Swan is certainly starting her career off with a bang as she and local psychiatrist Archibald Hopper teamed up with recovering accident victim David Nolan yesterday in the dramatic rescue of Storybrooke Elementary teacher Mary Margaret Blanchard. Saved from a bizarre kidnapping attempt that might have ended up quite tragically if it wasn't for some rather extraordinary heroics of Storybrooke's finest, Blanchard was reportedly snatched by historic town recluse Jefferson Teague on her way home from work. He abducted her from a street corner near Mr. Gold's pawn shop on Sunday evening. "I have no idea," said Blanchard when asked why she'd been targeted. "I think he just snapped, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Deputy Swan had just pulled up to Collodi's Garage on Sunday evening to follow up on a lead in an unrelated case. "I don't usually open the shop on Sundays," said owner Marco Collodi, "but yesterday I made an exception." Collodi, Storybrooke's resident Mr. Fix-It, hired recently recovered coma-patient David Nolan to help him with a backorder of repairs commissioned for the town's annual tree-lighting. Collodi agreed to let Nolan work a few extra hours Sunday night to get the fix-it shop back on schedule. Swan had seen that the garage had been open earlier that day, but Nolan had already left for the evening and was headed to Mr. Gold's pawn shop to scout out some rare supplies. Finding Collodi's already closed, Swan took a quick walk around the square and came across Dr. Archibald Hopper whose kid-favorite dalmatian had run off without a leash. Swan agreed to help Hopper look for the dog, and the two of them drove all around the square when they heard shouts coming from the alleyway behind the pawn shop (Mr. Gold did not stay open late that night and was unavailable for comment). Speeding toward the scene in Hopper's beat up Volkswagon, the doctor and Swan arrived just in time to see Teague shoving a drugged Miss Blanchard in his car before speeding off for the woods. David Nolan (whose errand to Gold's shop just as the kidnapping took place constitutes timing almost not to be believed) attempted to prevent the abduction and landed a few punches before Teague allegedly pulled a gun and struck the back of Nolan's head. Swan and Hopper came upon the injured Samaritan and the three of them – in a move Mayor Regina Mills suggests was rash and irresponsible of the young deputy regardless of the results – chased the armed assailant all the way back to Teague's estate which lies hidden and secluded deep within Storybrooke's forest. With no one to radio for backup (as long-time sheriff Graham Humbert was not scheduled to return from Boston until early this morning), and zero cell phone reception, Swan, Hopper and Nolan approached the aggressor head-on, searching the extravagant mansion's many rooms and finding Blanchard, suffering only a broken ankle and bad headache, abandoned in the attic. Teague himself, outnumbered and unprepared, managed to slip away, but the immediate threat has been dealt with and Storybrooke's fifth graders will be thrilled to have their teacher back in the classroom soon.

Citizens of Storybrooke may not even remember Jefferson Teague's outrageous behavior some years back, when he arrived unannounced at a benefit given by Mr. Bridgeport at the Storybrooke Emporium. Having withdrawn from public life several years prior due to severe stress and an aggravated nerve condition diagnosed by our own Dr. Whale, Teague [continued on page 4]

….

Thomas didn't even bother turning to the 4th page of the Mirror and instead, set the paper down on the front counter. A likely story, he thought as he snorted into his coffee and rolled his eyes. By the time James, Snow and Emma had returned to town in Archie Hopper's car, Thomas had already started his afternoon shift at Garcon's, having to rely on second-hand information for news. He planned on giving James a mouthful later, but he was thoroughly relieved nonetheless to hear that all was well. He also felt (a little guiltily) 'off the hook' since he'd been beating himself up all morning for not having been able to do much about his friend's disappearance. Hell, he couldn't even share the extent of his worry with his own wife! And between consoling Belle, making his appointment with Ella at 1:00 and then getting to work in time, he'd barely had a chance to look into it before Ella called on her way home from the market.

"Your friend David is ok!" she'd reported happily, explaining as best she could the pandemonium that had erupted outside the sheriff's office upon their return. "He and Dr. Hopper were helping Emma Swan prevent a kidnapping! And the victim was Mary Margaret Blanchard!" His wife's immense relief upon learning that her new friend 'Mary Margaret' was ok was of some comfort to Thomas, for it meant that his Ella was getting closer all the time to remembering how important she and Snow had always been to each other. But beyond his own relief, what Thomas felt most keenly at this point was curiosity. The story they'd spun was an elaborate concoction, he was sure of it. And though he couldn't possibly imagine the real story, he knew beyond a doubt that there was one yet to be told.

Consequently, he'd spent a large portion of the evening watching the Garcon's entrance, expecting to see his friend walk in with an explanation, but as the evening progressed, he realized that 'David Nolan' probably had quite a bit of explaining and damage control ahead of him. James wouldn't risk yet another nighttime trek to West End to talk to a bartender he wasn't really supposed to know all that well. So by the time Thomas arrived at Collodi's the next morning, he was bursting with questions. What had really happened in the woods? Who was this Jefferson Teague fellow? How did Snow break her ankle? And…most importantly…what, if anything, had been revealed to Emma?

It was a little after 9:00 when the bell over the shop's entrance dinged and the door opened up. Thomas shot his head up from the paper and was gearing up to give James a rough time, but it wasn't James. It was Marco.

"Good morning Mr. Herman," came the old man's jovial voice.

Thomas tried to mask his disappointment. "Marco," he nodded, looking back at the paper. He was inspecting the large photograph of Snow being lifted into an ambulance, a concerned Deputy Swan watching from a distance. It was a good minute before he realized that Marco hadn't said another word, nor had he moved from his spot by the doorway. The silence suddenly grown eerie, Thomas looked up and started. Marco was staring at him, looking quite pensive…and yet oddly amused. "What?" he said pointedly.

Marco peered at him. He seemed to be…studying him. But he offered no immediate explanation and instead turned and gestured toward the door. "I have a rather large appliance in the back of my truck. I wonder if you might help me bring it in?"

Thomas narrowed his gaze. "Umm…sure," he said. Why didn't you just say so? The young prince threw on his jacket, but continued to glare at the old man. Why was he…looking at him so strangely? He met Marco at the door and paused before pushing it open. "Marco?"

"Hmm?"

"Y'all right?"

Marco grinned and shook his head, clapping Thomas on the shoulder. "I'm fine, my friend. Shall we?"

Thomas wasn't at all convinced. Something was going on. But he couldn't quite get his finger on the pulse of it. "Whatcha got out here?" he asked as they approached the truck bed.

"A kiln," he replied.

Thomas whirled around. "A what?"

Marco was still grinning. "I took your advice, Sean. I saw Mr. Gold yesterday evening. Seems he's quite the collector of old appliances. Gave me a great bargain."

The word 'bargain' gave Thomas a shiver, but he refrained from asking. It wasn't any business of a part time mechanic's to know all the details of his boss's transactions. "So," he said as he helped Marco pull down the tailgate and shift the large contraption off the bed. "Is this for…what I think it's for?" he asked with a small smile.

Marco winked with a little of that old blue fairy twinkle in his eye. "I had a bit of…inspiration yesterday," he replied as they maneuvered the large oven into the shop. Once inside, Thomas retrieved a small dolly on casters and they wheeled it into the garage. Then they headed back to the front.

"Inspiration, huh?" Thomas wiped the sweat from his brow when they were done. He shoved a hand in his pocket, trying to appear nonchalant, but there was definitely something peculiar…something cryptic about these responses. His eyes fell on the article and he remembered something. "Have anything to do with you being quoted in the paper this morning?"

At this, the old man seemed genuinely surprised. "Oh so they did quote me, eh?" He moved past Sean to the counter and glanced down at the photo. "Yes, yes. Quite a bit of excitement that was."

"Did J-" Thomas choked and caught himself. "That is, uh," he cleared his throat, "did David tell you what happened exactly?" Perhaps the old man knew more than he might realize.

"Oh he didn't have to," Marco glanced up from the paper, that same glint in his eye. "I was there."

Thomas blinked, not understanding at first. "You were…you were there?" he lowered his voice in a hiss, though there was no one around to eavesdrop. The Mirror said nothing about Marco Collodi actually being there.

Marco pulled back and crossed his arms proudly. "Who do you think got little Henry back to school before the mayor missed him?" he paused and added quietly, "or I should say…before the queen missed him."

Thomas staggered forward, slamming his hand down on the counter for support (these jaw-dropping moments were getting to be a bit much for his blood pressure). "You…you know?"

Marco gave a slow nod.

"How—but—w-well when did you wake up? How'd you remember? Did you—" he gasped— "did you find Pinocchio?" Thomas asked in rapid succession, almost as if his mouth were working a tad faster than his brain.

At the mention of Pinocchio however, Marco's expression became a bit more pensive…and a little sad. He held his hands up, a tacit request that Thomas slow down. "Well now, hold on a minute…I know about the curse, Sean. I didn't say I remember."

He narrowed his gaze. "You…don't remember," he said quizzically.

Marco shook his head, but allowed the younger man to work things out.

Thomas cocked his head to one side, still puzzled. "But you…believe?"

At this, the old man smiled again. "Whole-heartedly."

Thomas stepped back and couldn't help asking, "Why?" then holding his hands up, "I mean, not that I'm complaining."

"Well for one thing," Marco chuckled, "there has to be more to life than Storybrooke, Maine."

Thomas snorted and took a seat on the stool behind the desk. The man had a point.

"And I'm far too old to worry or care much about people thinking I'm crazy."

The prince smiled. Another good point. He may not remember yet that he was Geppetto but he'd lost none of the craftsman's wisdom. "So who told you?"

"Henry," he smiled.

Henry Mills, Thomas thought. James's grandson. "I really gotta meet that kid," he chuckled.

"Indeed…a remarkable child. One whose ideas until recently have been too much ignored."

"Still, that's a lot to swallow on faith alone," Thomas said, impressed.

"Perhaps," Marco conceded. The whole idea did still seem a bit fantastic. "But I have long believed the world would be a much better place…if every now and then, we stopped and listened to our children."

Thomas swallowed hard, unexpectedly moved by his words. He thought of Alexandra, of the instant he woke from the curse with his baby girl in his arms. Since when are our children not our future? he'd asked James that night. "Couldn't agree more."

Marco smiled. "Besides…as Henry so astutely pointed out, I am unable to remember anything about my life here beyond the day-to-day routine of running this place. I can't remember moving here, starting this shop, meeting my friends—"

Thomas laughed. "I take it he was pretty convincing?"

"More so with me than with Archie I'm afraid," Marco chuckled, remembering Archie's utter look of shock as he'd asked Henry to tell him more about the curse. "I daresay he thought I would need therapy at some point."

"But, Archie—" Thomas glanced back at the article, checking his facts, "he was with James and Emma in the forest, right? He must have believed at least some of it."

"Oh by that point, of course," the craftsman clarified, rising to pour himself a cup of coffee from the small cart they put out in the lobby for customers. "I mean, when a boy leads you to the middle of the forest and you find yourself following a flock of bluebirds he insists will point the way, and then a fully saddled horse appears out of nowhere to take you there…there's little room for doubt." He paused and took a sip, amused by his young employee's staggering expression. He went on to point out other parts of the story they'd fed the press that were lies – that Archie never really lost his dog and that Emma and James were long gone by the time Henry even arrived at Archie's, asking for help. Thomas was also surprised, though no less pleased, to learn that Archie Hopper was actually, in fact, Geppetto's friend and counsel, Jiminy Cricket. (Of course, immediately following the revelation, Thomas wondered why it should surprise him in the least. Doc Hopper lunched with Marco almost every day. They were best friends).

"How is he taking it?"

"The way you would expect of a trained psychologist," Marco replied, taking another sip. "Very…slowly."

Thomas straightened up, finding Marco's answer a bit concerning. "But he does believe?…I mean he won't—"

"Archie would never betray the trust of his friends, Sean," the old man said with unshakable certainty. "Or the confidence of his patients. Henry taught him that lesson weeks ago, and I assure you…he's quite humbled by the boy. You have nothing to worry about."

Thomas blew out a sigh and sank back to the stool. They were silent for a few moments, Marco continuing to nurse his morning coffee while curiosity got the better of his young friend. "Soooo," he started slowly, taking a cup of coffee for himself. "Is it…weird for you? Knowing but…well, you know…not knowing?"

Marco shrugged, "Oddly not as strange as you might think. Though the names will definitely take some getting used to – I've known Mary Margaret for so long I feel quite like an old uncle. But 'Snow?' Until now, that's just been something we shovel."

The joke so caught Thomas off guard he snorted coffee through his nose. Snow White had been called many things, but never that. It was nice to see Geppetto's wry wit resurfacing.

"But no," he continued. "Not so strange. I don't…" he trailed off, his tone suddenly mournful. "I don't remember my life … as Geppetto. I don't remember…having a child. But," he sighed, "I feel keenly the emptiness of not having one."

Thomas gulped, knowing the hardship the old man had already endured to secure Pinocchio's safety and future. He wondered what was worse – having memories of his old life and suffering the pain of having them ripped away…or knowing he once was happy and being unable to remember it. It reminded Thomas of Belle – the suffering and distress she was currently enduring, mostly because she didn't understand the memories that haunted her.

"By the way," Marco said, sensing his friend's discomfort (and ironically more at peace with his own state of mind than his employee seemed to be on his behalf). He set his cup down on the counter and reached into his back pocket. "Am I right in assuming, based on this rather remarkable sketch," he retrieved the folded charcoal drawing and smoothed it out in front of them, "that your lovely bride to be is actually…Cinderella?"

Thomas stared at the artwork. "Ella," he amended softly.

"Ella," Marco nodded. "And…what about you?"

Thomas glanced up. "Me?"

The old man grinned, "Will it be… Your Highness or—"

"Oh God no—" he slapped himself in the forehead and laughed. "No it's Thomas. Just Thomas."

"Thomas," he nodded again and looked back to the sketch. "I wonder why they never mention your name in all the tales."

The prince shrugged, having not much thought about it until now. As 'Sean' he supposed he'd been aware of the many versions of "Cinderella" that papered the children's section of the public library. He straightened up again on his stool and pondered it further: how strange it really was for their lives, their personal histories, to be so widely known in this dimension – that the struggles his Ella had faced, the obstacles they'd overcome and their journey toward happiness had been told, re-told, re-imagined, anthologized, adapted, filmed and sold to children the world over. The details of their story were not only known…they were iconic. After all, how else had Marco discerned that Ashley was "Cinderella" from a charcoal drawing?

"The same is true for James, now that I think of it," Marco added, chuckling. "To my knowledge, he's only ever been referred to as 'Prince Charming' in the classic retellings."

Thomas snorted again. If he only knew. "Where is James?" he wondered suddenly, glancing at the clock. It was almost 9:30 and there was still no sign.

Marco became thoughtful once more. "I don't believe we'll see him very early today," he said with a frown. "Judging from the way his…well, judging from the look on Mrs. 'Nolan's' face at the station house…I don't think he's quite…out of the woods yet."

…

As James moved about the kitchen, pouring coffee, toasting breakfast, gathering his few possessions together before he went to work, he wasn't entirely sure if he'd gotten off very very lucky…or if things had just gotten a lot worse. Their return to town yesterday was heralded as the pinnacle of heroism. Poor Jiminy, of course, had been rather distressed to be included in the praise for the rescue, but he'd played along, agreeing that the cover story they'd contrived on the way back had the best chance of being believed. It accounted for most of trail of clues they'd left behind: why the cars were parked at Gold's and Collodi's all night; why James had a bruise on his neck the size of a softball; why no one could get in touch by cell phone. In fact, the only real gamble they'd taken in concocting the alibis was the risk that someone had seen Jiminy leaving his offices with Geppetto and Henry. Henry had insisted on leaving the back way and as covertly as possible (And Jiminy had actually spent the night conked out on his therapy bed, so no one had seen him in town that morning). But there was still that minute possibility that a passerby might have seen the jalopy leaving from the back alley and heading for the woods around 2pm in the afternoon. So far though, no one had come forward to contest it, and everyone in town seemed to be quite proud of such an exciting report of heroics in their own hometown.

What the story had provided most of all however (at least in James's view), was a legitimate reason for 'David Nolan' to have gone practically a whole day without letting his 'wife' know he was all right. He knew he was in for a ton of explaining, and though he wouldn't dream of taking back one second he'd gotten to spend with his true wife, he worried about his ability to maintain appearances that the Nolans' relationship was stable. So as soon as they'd returned to town, James had gone straight over to Kathryn, prepared to account for his whereabouts. Kathryn, he suspected, had been growing suspicious of late, and he certainly didn't want to give her any reasons to complain to her good 'pal' Regina. As much as it pained him (even more so after meeting up with Snow at the cottage) he knew he must keep up the illusion of the marriage.

So upon their return, he'd wasted no time in seeking her out, playing the role of the dutiful husband, feigning relief that he'd made it through the ordeal so he could see her again. He was actually quite pleased with his performance and thought he'd been sufficiently convincing. Oddly enough, Kathryn had not reacted in the slightest. She claimed to be quite glad to see him, but the look on her face was completely glazed over, almost vacant. To own the truth, her expression was unnerving. He'd foreseen two scenarios: Kathryn would either be gushing and weeping tears of relief and joy at having him back safe and sound, or she would angrily demand an explanation for why he'd been out all night, didn't call, and hanging out with Mary Margaret Blanchard. For each possibility, he'd been quite prepared with his alibi. But the last thing he'd expected was this disturbing stoicism. It was as if she'd been permanently stuck in the 'Storybrooke haze' with no sign of recovery or escape. They'd barely spoken that evening as they prepared dinner, ate and watched TV. Their conversation was inane. Her voice – monotone. So as he went through his morning routine now, periodically peering around the archway into the living room to find her still sitting like a statue on the couch, it wasn't with a lot of confidence that he prepared to leave.

Shrugging his coat on, he stepped into the room. "Are you um…working today?" he asked.

Kathryn shook her head, not looking up from the magazine she was staring at (and James was fairly sure she'd been on the same page for the last hour).

He frowned. "Got anything…fun planned?"

Again she shook her head, and again her gaze remained fixed.

He should leave, he thought. What was he worried about? She wasn't drilling him for explanations. She wasn't demanding a declaration of love and affection, or showing him more blasted pictures. He should take advantage of this. They'd caught a real break here.

But as he continued to stare at her, her eyes almost black and beady like she was caught in some trance, he couldn't help but feel a genuine concern. Something had happened. Something…crucial. And suddenly he felt that he'd deeply regret it someday if he allowed himself to ignore it. "Kathryn," he said pointedly, settling down on the coffee table in front of her.

Still she wouldn't look up…but as he got closer, he realized…she was shivering.

"Kathryn!" he grasped her wrist, giving it a shake.

Finally she startled awake and looked at him, her expression just as spacy and frightening as it had been all morning. "What?" she asked quietly.

"Whadyou mean 'what'?" he squeezed, trying to maintain her gaze. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing," she said robotically, as if it were a programmed response.

But James shook her up, grasping both arms a little more firmly. "I don't believe you. You've been acting strangely ever since we got back from the station. Now what is it?"

Forced to confront him head on, her lip started trembling and gradually the vacancy of her expression gave way to pain. Sadness. Fear. "I…" she mumbled, "I…I can't explain it…I—" she started fidgeting with the lace trimming of her sleeves. She dropped her gaze again, staring at her lap.

"Hey," James tried, a little gentler.

It was beginning to look like she'd stay that way, and James was about to give up. Then suddenly, she snapped her head up, her eyes fierce. "Kiss me."

James reeled back. "What?"

She reached forward and locked her arms around his neck. "I'm your wife, right? It's not an unreasonable request," she spat. And before James could stop her, she darted in. His eyes flew open, her lips wet and sloppy and awkwardly sliding against his. By the time he'd gotten over his shock, she'd already pulled back, staring at him with a mixture of frustration, hurt and confusion.

"Nothing," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing!" She sprung up from the couch and started pacing in front of the fireplace. "I feel nothing David."

James turned, his heart pounding hard. "What…do you mean?" he said cautiously, spinning around on the coffee table to face her.

Abruptly, she turned to him, "Are you having an affair?"

"What?"

"Are you?" she prodded, flailing her arms wildly in front of him.

"What gave you that—"

"Because if you are, that would explain it," she resumed her pacing, and finally James stood.

"Explain what?"

"Why I feel nothing!" she cried, stopping again before him. "Otherwise it's not normal is it? It's not normal for a woman to kiss her husband and feel…" she looked down, "empty."

The anguish in her voice was unmistakable, and he found himself actually wanting to reach out, to take her hand in his. But he hesitated. He'd been fooled once before by Abigail's charades. Just weeks after he'd helped reunite her with her true love, she'd turned on him, insisting that she preferred going through with the merger of their kingdoms. Midas had been prepared to call the whole thing off for the sake of his daughter's happiness, believing her to be truly in love with the revived Sir Frederick. James would have been free and clear, with nothing for King George to hold over him, and no reason that he and Snow couldn't come out of hiding. But when Abigail staunchly declared that she meant to marry James after all, that she much preferred inheriting the wealth and power of two kingdoms to marrying a lowly knight in her father's court, she not only prolonged King George's relentless hunt, but actually gave up his location to George which had led to James's capture. Ultimately, the ordeal didn't stop him from marrying Snow, but Princess Abigail hadn't exactly made things easier. She had proven herself to be as selfish and greedy a royal as they come, so he couldn't help but doubt her sincerity here.

But even so, as he'd been observing since the beginning, the curse actually seemed to have improved her character in Storybrooke. Kathryn reminded him more and more of the Abigail he thought he'd been helping when he agreed to face the water demon to save Frederick in the first place. And perhaps it was with the vain hope that there was still a bit of her left inside that he finally tipped her chin up to look at him. "No…" he whispered. "No it's not normal."

A single tear fell down her cheek as she met his gaze head-on. "What's happening to me?" she pleaded.

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"I'm…" she tried to look away but James wouldn't let her. "I've been..." she tried again but then seemed to give up. "Nevermind, I'm sorry," she shrunk away, retrieving her magazine. "With all you just went through it's—"

"Kathryn," James caught her hand, and turned her back around. "You've been what?"

She looked down at their clasped hands and sighed. "I've been…seeing things," she said barely above a whisper.

James started. "Seeing…what things?"

"Flashes," she replied hoarsely, unable to look up for she knew how crazy it sounded. "Like…dreams but…I'm not asleep."

James tightened his grip, and she met his gaze once more. "Flashes…like…visions?" Slowly, she nodded. "Of what?"

"You," she said, then thought a moment. "But…but not you. And people…people I've never met before but…but I feel like I—" she stopped herself. "Forget it, this is stupid."

Once again she retreated and James let her hand slip from his grasp. His first instinct was to keep going. Flashes. Visions. Dreams of people she knew but…didn't. It certainly seemed as if Abigail was resurfacing. And why not? That was the goal right? Restore enough happy endings and weaken the curse in order to wake more people. Except what would come of waking Abigail? Would she revert to her old ways? Would she make life difficult for him and Snow? Or worse: would she resist revelation and run straight to Regina, telling her all about her crazy husband who talked of curses and witches and knights and enchantments?

She was halfway up the stairs before James got hold of himself enough to follow her. No, he thought. The risks were too great to just come out and tell her the truth about herself. He had to handle this the way a man in this world might…and the thought gave him an idea. New plan in mind, he sprang up the steps and joined her in the main bedroom. "Grab your coat," he said sharply.

She turned and stared at him. "What?"
"We're gonna figure this thing out, Kathy," he coaxed, taking both hands in his and pulling her off the bed. "Grab your coat, come on."

She stood up clumsily, her gaze narrowed. "W-where are we going?"

James gave her arms a reassuring squeeze. "To talk to a friend."

…

Rose set down the paper, still staring in disbelief at the photo of Mary Margaret being loaded in the back of an ambulance. A kidnapping in Storybrooke – of Mary Margaret Blanchard! She still couldn't believe it. Who could ever think of hurting such a sweet lady?

Rose, like many in Storybrooke, usually found the paper quite dull. Very rarely did anything of any real consequence occur in this town, so the Mirror was typically chock-full of gossip and rumors spread mostly by Marguerite Tremaine and her gaggle of high-society debutants. Rarely did a story of actual substance find its way to the front page, so when it did, everyone in town knew about it. Storybrooke's last big headline was all about David Nolan awaking from his coma. How strange that he was involved in this story too. And, she further recalled, hadn't it been Mary Margaret Blanchard assisting the sheriff in that case? Rose doubted very much that many people had made the connection. Sidney Glass certainly hadn't. But it was second nature for this bookworm to start formulating theories. Besides…it helped take her mind off of…other things.

Her talk with Sean yesterday hadn't gone the way she'd expected. In fact, she hadn't expected to tell anyone at all about what she'd been dreaming, the visions she'd been having. But he was nothing but supportive. Against all manner of reason, he actually believed her. And for a split second, she considered driving up to the hospital then and there and confronting her fears. She would find that man in the psych ward. She would somehow figure a way inside. She would find out—

But before she'd even buttoned her coat after clocking out from her shift, she changed her mind. No matter how much she wanted to believe there was some magic solution waiting for her at that hospital, no matter how much Sean insisted someone was 'trying to tell her something', guilt and grief overwhelmed her, and she simply went home. What a coward she was: using a few strange dreams as some excuse for not facing her problems head on, for not owning up to her mistakes and dealing with the consequences…for not telling Jack about the baby.

With a heavy sigh, she slid the paper to the end of the counter and turned on the kitchen faucet. Water diluted the little bit of milk left in her dad's breakfast bowl as she retrieved the sponge from the back windowsill and started scrubbing. I have to tell him today, she thought, though it filled her insides with butterflies at the thought of it. Jack wasn't exactly…the father type. As she'd shamefully admitted to Sean yesterday, she didn't love him, and the idea of having his baby seemed so…so wrong! She shook her head, stop it! She chided herself. What's done is done. She would tell him tonight. Tonight after they closed. He always came in on Tuesday to do the books and Sean's shift would be over early. It would give her all day to prepare what she was going to say, how she would phrase it, how—

"Rose?" she heard a muffled shout followed by a light rapping on the back door. Rose yelped as the cereal bowl slipped out of her grasp and clattered to the sink. She switched off the faucet and gulped. The pounding started again. "Rose!" he yelled.

It was Jack. What the hell was she doing at her house? Peering down the hallway, listening for signs that her father had stirred, she went to the back door and slipped her finger in the crack between the curtain fastened over the small window. Yep…sure enough. Jack Hunter: The father (she shuddered) of her baby. Drawing a deep breath, she unlatched the lock and opened the door. "Jack," she said quietly, putting a finger to her lips and nodding down toward the hallway. "What are you doing here?"

Jack stepped up into the kitchen, towering over her, and followed her gaze down the hall. Seeming not to care that her father might be sleeping, he said loudly, "What do you mean what am I doing here? You won't return my calls, you haven't been by in days—"

"Shh!" she snapped and ushered them both into the small living room at the other end of the little ranch. "For God's sake, keep your voice down. He's resting."

Jack rolled his eyes as she dragged him but obeyed, and when he spoke again he was a tad quieter. "Why are you ignoring me?"

"I'm not ignoring—"

"The hell you aren't—"

"I've been a little busy Jack!" she snapped, suddenly angry. "You know, my father in the hospital and all?"

Jack sucked in a breath, and she could tell from the look in his eyes that his patience was waning. "I know that I just…" he ran his hand through his jet black hair and shook his head. She stepped back a little. Even from across the room, she could see his biceps flexing beneath his maroon tee-shirt. "Look, you are the one who wanted to keep this thing with us quiet. And I've respected that—" he paused and glanced up at the ceiling— "I mean as long as your little schoolteacher friend and Doctor 'Glasses-man' don't say anything of course," he chuckled as if he'd just invented the concept of comedy. Rose pressed her lips together but didn't respond. He looked back down, once again serious. "So I've kept my distance. I can't comfort you in public. You won't let me run errands for you. You won't let me do any of the things a normal boyfriend would do and that's fine—"

"Boyfriend?" Rose choked, her eyes wide as saucers.

His hands came to his hips and he stared her down incredulously. "Well yeah," he scoffed, tensing his muscles again. "We're not exactly gettin' together to play Parcheesi!"

Rose felt her stomach start to ache and she turned away from him. Not the time, she thought. Not ready, she begged. Not here. Jack had objected to this kind of thing before of course. She knew it bugged him that she wouldn't let their…arrangement be more than it already was. But in a way, she'd always suspected that he was secretly quite happy not doing all the other 'things boyfriends would do.' She went to his place. They had sex. She came home. And the fantasies she'd allowed him to indulge in there placated any macho resentment he had at being denied bragging rights in public. No, she thought. She wasn't fooled. He was here now because…she'd stopped coming over.

"Hey," he soothed, jolting her from her thoughts. He was suddenly right behind her, his mouth mere inches from her ear. "Come on, baby," he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek, "Don't shut me out." Rose stiffened as his hands settled around her waist.

"Stop it," she squeaked, but she seemed to have lost her voice.

"Stop what?" he growled against her throat and then laved wet, sucking kisses along her neck.

"My father is in the—ah!" she yelped as his hands started to roam, "in the other room!" she gasped.

"He's sleeping, babe," he said, devouring her sensitive skin as he stroked his right hand down her hip and then back up her buttock. "He'll never know." She opened her mouth to object again, but his other hand flew to her nape, and yanked her face up to his, capturing her lips with possessive force as he continued to grope her. His tongue darted down her throat and she nearly choked while he slid his right palm down the front of her waist, inching toward the juncture between her thighs. No, she thought, her stomach starting to churn. His left hand trailed back down her neck and under her arm, then dipped underneath her shirt. No this…doesn't feel right…she thought, twisting in agony. Wrong…why did it feel so wrong? She'd allowed him to touch her this way a dozen times, and though they were hardly a pair that whispered sweet nothings to each other, the physical release he offered had always seemed worth how much she hated herself later. But today there was no pleasure…only pain. And the closer he got to her most intimate, private places, the worse she felt – like she was…betraying someone.

His fingertips were digging up under the guide wire of her bra and the ache in her gut doubled. "Mmmlll-no," she managed in the tiny bit of breath she gulped as he continued to assault her with his tongue. "Pllz sstp," she muttered into his mouth, straining for air, but he wasn't listening. She twisted and writhed in protest, trying to wriggle away as he pushed the bra aside and cupped her swollen breast in his palm. He squeezed her – hard, and she cried out as he groped and palmed like he was sizing up fruit for the picking. Rose slammed her eyes shut as the pain in her stomach continued to build. Stop this…have to stop this, she screamed aloud in her head. His right hand skimmed over the waistline of her jeans, and when his fingers grazed the bare skin over her womb, she convulsed in total agony and a vision flashed before her eyes—

"He's sleeping Belle…he'll never know," the fool drawled as he pinned her to the bed, his hands tightening around her wrists. "Don't worry, princess. I'll be sure to leave his royal majesty the leftovers"—

"NO!" she bellowed and finally wormed out of his grasp. She jabbed her elbow against his rib cage while bending her knee and snapping her foot back, kicking him squarely in the crotch. Cursing and yelping from the pain, Jack flew backward and his calves collided with the couch.

"What the hell Rose?" he barked, keeled over and panting.

"I said…stop," she said, and this time her voice was clear as a bell.

"Huh," grunted. "Too good for me now, are ya Princess?" he spat and tried to straighten up, still holding on to his groin.

Rose stood her ground without regret, and the pain in her belly ebbed away the longer they stood apart. Voices started filling her head…but they weren't from her dreams…

"You…are one of the smartest and bravest women I've ever met"…

"I think someone's trying to tell you something…and I think you need to listen"…

"I said no and I mean it, Jack," she crossed her arms over her chest. "Not here…and not…not again."

The statement shocked them both. After all, Rose had been planning to tell him about the baby today. When exactly had she made the decision to end things? But as she stared into his rage-filled eyes, she knew it was the right choice. This man was no father. And besides…the nausea, the aches and pains that swelled in her belly as he'd touched her – they were gone now.

"Is that a fact?" he snarled, finally standing up (though still wincing) and stalking over. "We both know you don't really mean that." He came to stand right in front of her, and she didn't flinch as he drew the tip of his finger from her temple down her cheek. "Face it baby…you can't get enough of me."

But Rose didn't budge. Her arms were still crossed, her jaw firmly set, and her head…"If there's anyone strong enough to end this, Rose…it's you"… for the first time in days, her head was clear. "Get out Jack. And don't ever come back here again."

Despite appearances, Jack was totally flummoxed. For as long as…well, for as far back as he could remember, Rose French had never given him the impression that she had any kind of a backbone. Sure she'd resisted him for a long time, but all it took was a trip to an all-night Chinese place and her father's fortunately timed heart attack to give him an in. A fragile woman, an empty house, a certain finesse and she'd been putty in his hands. He could still remember the feel of that first time – the conquest, the victory of having finally plunged inside of her, how it felt to toy with her, to have her shrieking with pleasure. He always knew she wanted him, and keeping quiet about it was a small price to pay to have her coming back for more. Since then his passion for her had only grown. She was the only one he wanted to be with. The only woman he thought about. Eventually (to the chagrin of Marguerite Tremaine), he'd ended all his other liaisons. He'd even gone as far as fixing her car one night – he'd actually strained a few muscles pushing her beat-up Chevy out of a snow bank that had accumulated in his driveway– he'd done something for her that was totally selfless. And he'd gone to that damn hospital and tried to comfort her while they waited yet again for news about old Mo, all the while keeping her damned secret…and this was how she repaid him? "It's not that easy to get rid of me Rose," he warned her, "you'll see."

"Get out," she said again, un-phased. And, with a few more grunts, Jack tugged down a bit on his tee-shirt, pulled on his coat and walked out the door.

As soon as it slammed shut, Rose stalked over to the dining room and grabbed her purse hanging off the back of her chair. She headed down the hall to one of the closets, pausing to check first on her father – who as usual, slept through everything – and then grabbed her keys. If she really stopped to think about it, she might be quite shocked at the certainty and determination with which she moved. Where…had any of that…come from? she might wonder…except she knew the answer. And she didn't stop to think about it. She knew where she had to be and so moved swiftly, for she felt suddenly…that she was running out of time.

…

Shrouded behind hedges that lined the drug store's side street driveway, Jafar looked on as the bartending brute slammed shut the door of the beauty and stalked off down the street. He must have parked a few doors down for he was receding further down the road, and as he faded into the distance, the old vizier scowled down at the woman beside him, finding it easier and easier in his rising fury to resist her legendary charms. "It appears that didn't go very well."

"As I suspected," came Circe's sweet voice, the serenity of her countenance striking Jafar as completely inappropriate considering the current state of affairs at Storybrooke General. Circe herself of course, did not seem in the slightest bit worried. "She will have been haunted by him for days now. All it takes is one look."

Jafar scoffed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his long black leather duster. "One look at a mental patient, Circe. One might think that in itself would be enough of a deterrent. Isn't she supposed to be the sensible one of all these…women!"

"As I have tried once before to counsel the queen, there is nothing sensible about love," Circe tightened up the collar of her red coat and gave her black scarf a firm tug. "She would have done well to try to understand love before enacting a curse so dependent on its properties."

Her companion sighed as the two started toward his car – arguably one of Jafar's principle reasons for trying to maintain the status quo. The queen had certainly made good on her promise of wealth and power – he commanded the psychiatric wing at Storybrooke General, held the fate of countless souls in his hands (and as head of Psychiatry had the legal right to do so) and he slept like a baby at night knowing that one of those patients was the very Sultan to whom he'd been forced to cower for an eternity. But not even the queen could have anticipated how much the Arabian villain would come to love his car. Jafar would fight to the death to prevent from having to return to a world in which didn't exist his 1968 black Oldsmobile Cutless Supreme.

He opened the passenger door and gestured for Circe to climb inside, careful to avoid watching too closely as she gracefully eased herself down to the leather interior and pulled her slender legs inside. He was about to ask what exactly she meant by 'understanding love' when movement caught his eye and he glanced back toward Belle's house. He ducked down behind the open car door and the two watched as the beauty also stalked down the driveway and got into her car. The woman moved with purpose, and in seconds, she'd sped out of the driveway and right past the hedge. Jafar stood once more as Belle's car turned onto the main road and disappeared.

"Should we follow her?" Jafar asked, worried about the intense determination evident even from this great a distance in the beauty's face.

"No," replied Circe, just as calm and serene as before.

"If I didn't know better, I would say you're not as…committed to this mission as you should be, witch," he spat, hoping for some sort of reaction so he wouldn't have to hear her sweet siren voice again.

But still, she remained content. "Follow the brute, not the beauty," she commanded, placing her purse quite properly on her lap.

Jafar circled around the car and slumped into the driver's seat. "Why? She turned him away."

Circe peered at him from beneath her furry hood. "As I said, Jafar. There is nothing sensible about love. I believe the bartender may yet take care of our problems for us. Follow…the brute."

…

Archie knew he should have canceled his office hours today. It would have been the responsible thing for the town psychologist to do. How in the world could be expected to keep his appointments and council his patients to cope with a world he wasn't sure was real anymore? And with half of the town congratulating him for his phony heroics, he'd had just about all he could take already and it was only 10:00!

So it was with more than a little degree of agitation that he greeted David – or James – or whoever at his door this morning and with even less patience that he listened to what the princely fellow wanted him to do.

"I don't trust her, Arch. She's not someone who, if she wakes up, is necessarily going to be an asset to us."

"Then why do you want me to help her remember at all?" Archie asked, glancing back at the miserable wreck of a woman sitting inside his office on the therapy couch. He and David were outside in the hallway, talking in whispers. "And besides, I'm not even sure I can help her remember."

James took a deep breath and leveled with his old friend. "I want you to help her because I think there's more going on with her than any of us know. We need to know the extent of her relationship with the queen. I thought she was just someone Regina befriended to keep an eye on me here, but now I'm not sure. Not with the way she was acting this morning." He could tell all the 'curse-talk' was making Jiminy a bit jumpy, but he felt he didn't have time to argue. Kathryn already felt self-conscious enough having her husband take her to see a shrink. "And by the way, yes you can do this," James added with a small grin. "You're a psychologist Arch. You're trained in hypnotics. And this way, if anything really bad is revealed, we can explain it away as a side effect and keep her under the curse's spell."

Archie frowned. He didn't like the sound of that one bit. "Even if I believed you, I try to make it a policy not to lie to my patients."

Despite the argument, James found himself grinning. Jiminy Cricket – conscientious to the last. "If you believed me?" he drew back from him and crossed his arms. "You having doubts already Arch?" He cocked an eyebrow, but he wasn't too alarmed.

Archie sighed, pinching the ridge of nose as he pushed his glasses back into place. "No…I've been over and over what happened and believe it or not," he gave James a small grin, "the most scientificexplanation for all of this…is that it's all true."

James had to chuckle. "Really? The most scientific?"

Archie shrugged his shoulders. "There's no such thing as shared psychosis, James," he said, startled by how natural it felt to call him that. "You can't all be crazy, so the most logical answer is…none of you are."

He smiled, amazed at how much like Jiminy he really was despite the fact that he wasn't a tiny green bug fluttering in front of him. It was sure great to have him back. "Look, I know you don't…really remember…from before, so you're just gonna have to take it on faith – I would never ask you to betray your conscience unless I had a very good reason."

Archie turned and gave the woman another glance. She was watching them both warily, like a frightened child huddled in the corner of a closet afraid to come out. Curse or not, this woman needed help. He couldn't turn his back on her no matter what he believed…as he suspected James knew full well already. "All right," he whispered. They walked back into the office and closed the door.

"Kathryn," Archie cleared his throat, scraping his chair across the floor so that he sat beside the therapy couch. "Your husband tells me you're…having some…strange dreams. He watched as the poor woman's eyes darted between doctor and husband, though Archie got the distinct impression she was more afraid of herself than either of them. "Can you tell me…what's strange about them?"

Again, Kathryn looked to David, breathing heavily as she wondered for about the eighth time already how in the hell Dr. Hopper was supposed to help. "Well, for starters," she began a little more tersely than she'd intended, "When I have them, I'm not asleep."

Archie nodded, keeping entirely focused on his new patient. "Go on?"

She hesitated a bit more, then sighed and shook her head. "And they're not…really dreams. They're more like…flashes, quick pictures of…" she trailed off and looked down in her lap.

"Flashes of what, Kathryn?" he reached out and touched her hand. "Or who?"

She gulped, but his touch did not make her flinch. "P-people," she mumbled, not looking up.

"People you know? Like…David?"

She jerked a bit at the name but still didn't look up. "Sometimes…sometimes David," she glanced up, "but not really David…and sometimes—" she sucked in a breath, her pulse starting to race again as she thought guiltily of the gym teacher— "sometimes people that I…don't know…people I've never seen or met but I…I feel like I have."

Archie paused for a minute, becoming aware that James had now settled in the chair by his desk in the corner. Kathryn's back was to him, which was probably good. He watched them intently, soaking up every word. "People like…me?" Archie said lightly, squeezing her hand. The change in his tone caused her to look up. "Do you know me?"

For some reason, she found the sight of him searching anxiously behind his wire-rimmed glasses rather goofy and she let out a sort of hoarse giggle. "No…no I don't know you. I mean I've seen you of course…around town but—"

"But not in your dreams," he finished for her with a grin.

She laughed again, "No."

"Well that's a relief…We always want our shrinks nice and neutral," he quipped. "So why don't you hold on to my hand Kathryn, since we're fairly certain I won't be popping up in any flashes, and whenever you get frightened or feel like you want to stop, you just give a squeeze ok?"

His words were soothing, safe, and for the first time in days, her shoulders felt a little lighter.

In the corner James was practically beaming, stunned by how well composed and tranquil his old friend could be with her despite how uncertain and anxious James knew he really was (after all, it wasn't every day a man discovered he'd been a talking cricket who counseled a wooden boy in another life).

Archie caught sight of James's expression out of the corner of his eye and nodded gratefully before continuing. "Now, I think we're gonna have you lay down—"

"What?" Kathryn yelped and squeezed his hand. "I don't want to sleep—"

"Not to sleep, just to relax—"

She squeezed again. "You don't understand Dr. Hopper. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I blink I—"

"Kathryn," he said softly, refusing to let her anxiety affect his volume or tone. "You're having flashes of things that don't make sense to you. If we're going to figure them out, you need to relax." She clearly thought the very idea was hopeless, but eventually she nodded and lay back on the couch. "Now remember. Just squeeze my hand when you're afraid and remember where you are ok?" She gave another nod.

Archie cleared his throat, reached for a small glass of water that stood on the nearby coffee table and took a sip. "Now," he took a deep breath, "in a minute I'm gonna have you close your eyes—" she squeezed his hand hard— "but before you do," he continued hurriedly, "I want to give you some direction. When you close your eyes, you're going to go to a safe place. A place where you remember feeling at home and happy, ok? Can you do that? Home…and happy." He repeated himself a few times, planting the idea slowly into her subconscious as he made soft light circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. "Home…and happy," he said again, getting quieter. Eventually, her eyes fluttered closed and Archie held his breath as he waited to see if she would suddenly jolt right back out. But the hypnosis was working and she was breathing heavily. "Kathryn?" he called softly, glancing up at James whose eyes were glued to her now. "Are you still with me?"

"Mmm hmm," she murmured.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

She didn't speak for several minutes, and James started to become concerned that she'd fallen asleep. But Archie prompted her again, and finally she responded. "Our summer retreat."

James leaned forward in his chair. Summer Retreat? To his knowledge, the 'Nolans' had no summer retreat. How could they? No one leaves Storybrooke.

Archie looked over, thinking the same thing. "Where is your summer retreat?" he asked, resuming the soothing massage of her hand and wrist.

"The sea side cottage. The day we first met."

James motioned for him to continue.

"Can you…describe it to me?"

Both men watched as an expression of absolute contentment washed over her face and her lips curled into a serene smile. "My father took me there after my mother died. I was 10. It was the only place I could go where I didn't have to worry about acting like a proper princess."

James sprang to his feet, his eyebrows raised high on his head. Archie lifted his free hand up and motioned for him to hang back as if to say I know I know, I heard it too. But he also knew that if Kathryn felt the slightest bit frightened, heard a noise that didn't correspond to anything she currently envisioned, their progress would stall and they would have to begin again. In his experience, starting over rarely yielded the same quality of results. "You must have missed her very much," Archie continued in his best shrink voice.

"Very much…she was kind, and lovely, and never once complained about my father's curse."

"Your father?"

"King Midas."

James clenched his fists but remained quite still, afraid to breathe wrong else the trance would be broken.

"Go on…why did decide to visit this place."

"It's where we first met," she said at once.

"Who, Kathryn? Where you met who?"

"He was just a boy then. No more than 12. His father's family maintained the cottage when we weren't using it and managed the household when we took a holiday. He was just a kitchen servant …but I knew that one day he wished to become a knight."

"And how did you…meet?"

"He found me in the gardens. I had run out on my father at dinner. He'd asked me to say a prayer that my mother had always loved and I refused. It was childish but I just couldn't—" she started to squeeze Archie's hand ever so slightly.

"It's ok it's ok," he said as if comforting a child. "I'm sure he understood."

She quieted again and continued, "I was sitting on one of the stone benches in the cherry orchard"…

"Are you all right, your Highness?" came a voice behind her.

Abigail started, but she did not turn around. She had not come out here to be bothered by house servants. "Please…please leave me alone."

"Can't do that milady," replied the persistent young man.

"Really," she straightened up with a hollow laugh, but still refused to turn. "And why is that?"

"Because I can't stand to see a pretty girl cry."

Abigail gasped. Such a bold statement for one so— but when she finally turned, she was shocked to find the boy standing right behind her, holding out a single yellow daisy. He had a kind though mischievous grin on his face that should have offended her, but instead it just made her curious. It was the height of impropriety really, to speak to the daughter of a king so…casually. And yet, she didn't mind; she had admired him many times since they'd arrived. He was always scurrying about to and from the kitchens, running errands for his mother, and reading tales of the Gods and Goddesses whenever he had a spare moment.

"It is…risky to speak to a princess in such a cavalier manner," She eyed him carefully, the implied warning quite clear (though she accepted the little yellow flower with a smile).

"True, your Highness," he said with a soft chuckle…and then he sat down next to her. Next to Princess Abigail! Daughter of Midas! He plopped right down beside her on the same bench. What did he think he was doing? Mamma would scold her for this. She would—"But it was my understanding that you came here to get away from palace life for a while. To pretend, at least for now, that you're not a princess. Right?"

Abigail's mouth hung open stupidly and she couldn't find the words to reply. It was no matter though, for he continued as if this were a perfectly normal, proper conversation.

"So let's pretend together shall we?" he said with an overly gallant nod of the head. Before she could react, he lifted the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it – awkwardly of course, for he'd only ever read of such things in storybooks. But the sentiment was adorable, and the 10-year-old princess couldn't help but giggle as his young lips tickled the back of her hand.

"What's your name?" she asked sweetly, her tears drying and eyes lighting up.

"Frederick," he said confidently. "But today?" he stood suddenly and withdrew an imaginary sword from his imaginary sheath. "You may call me Sir Frederick the Brave."

"Frederick the Brave?" she made a face and stuck out her tongue. "Can't you be more original?"

He looked down and grinned. "What did you have in mind?"

She pursed her lips and leaned both palms back on the bench. She stared at the evening sky, contemplating the question as if it were a serious matter of state. "Sir Frederick the Gallant. Or—" she leaned forward, eyes widening with excitement. "The Gallant Sir Frederick!"

He narrowed his gaze at her, seeming to consider the matter carefully, and then gave a very pleased nod of approval. "The Gallant Sir Frederick it is!" he thrust his imaginary sword in the air.

"And me?" she stood up, suddenly jealous that she didn't have a role.

"Hmm," he cupped his chin in his hand and circled around her, sizing her up and making more hmmm noises that were starting to annoy her. Finally he settled once more in front of her and grinned. "You can be my kitchen maid!"

"Your kitchen maid!" she scoffed, outraged.

"Yes – Abigail the kitchen maid."

"Well, I never—"

"Hold on," he reached for her as she started to pull away and rested his hand on her shoulder. "You haven't heard the whole story yet. Abigail the kitchen maid is actually…Sir Frederick's most trusted spy!"

Abigail spun back around, resentment gone as she bounced a few times on the balls of her feet. "Sir Frederick's spy?" she clapped her hands together.

"Absolutely! You gave your father the slip already. You're a natural sneak."

A curious feeling fluttered about in her stomach and she felt a tiny thrill up her spine. She had been praised as much as the day is long, but for some reason, this boy's strange compliment meant more to her than the most beautiful verse or prose. "All right," she nodded, "except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"It's Abby the kitchen maid," she curtsied before him and giggled. "Not Abigail."

Frederick smiled, "Abby it is."

"Sounds like the beginnings of a wonderful friendship," Archie managed as Kathryn spilled the entirety of the tale like it was a story she'd memorized as a girl.

"I saw him every summer after that," she went on, smiling beautifully as she recalled other moments with Frederick– the day Midas had arranged for him to be tutored, the day he'd been promoted to yeoman…their first kiss…the eve before he was to be knighted when he asked her to marry him…

James listened in awe, not only to the innocent and downright lovely ramblings of a girl as much in love with Frederick as he was with Snow, but to a version of King Midas that so vastly differed from the power-hungry tyrant he'd always taken him for. This was a man who, in seeing that his daughter had a companion she trusted, made it possible for a young kitchen servant to become a knight and then granted him his daughter's hand.

The story made James…quite uneasy. This didn't sound at all like the Abigail or Midas he'd raged against for so many years. And this certainly didn't seem like the same woman who, after curing Frederick of the Golden Curse, had turned right around and insisted on a kingdom merger and marriage to a man she didn't love. He caught Archie's eye and made a speeding motion, imploring him to guide her further into Abigail's future.

Archie nodded, and started to stroke the back of her hand again. "Now Abby," he said, hesitant to use the name at first for fear that she'd no longer feel grounded in this world. But it was clear that she was so deeply under that to call her Kathryn now might jar her too soon and yank her to the present before they figured out the problem. "I need you to go further ahead now. Remember, hold on to me if you get scared, but I need you to leave those wonderful days of Frederick behind and try to remember…what has been troubling you."

Instantly her whole body tensed, and both James and Archie sucked in a breath as they prayed she wouldn't jolt herself awake. Her brow creased and her tranquil, nostalgic smile was replaced by a painful frown.

"It's ok Abby," Archie soothed, "just squeeze, remember? And tell me…where are you?"

Her breathing was heavy, ragged, and James actually felt his heart go out to her. Thank the Gods he hadn't ignored her this morning, he thought suddenly. She might have brought all of this up to Regina!

"Wait for me, Abby. Go slowly. Where…are…you?"

"The queen's lair," she said thickly. And James shot forward in his chair.

Again, Archie glared at him to be patient. "The queen's lair," he repeated and winced as she squeezed his hand so tight it went a bit numb. "Why did you go there?"

"I didn't go there, I was dragged."

The men stared at each other, slack-jawed. "D-dragged?" Archie asked, struggling to maintain his calming tone.

"Yes," she winced, her head shaking from one side to the other. "No...NO! Please! You can't do this to us!"

"Shh! Calm down Abby, it's ok. It's just a memory. Tell it to me slowly," Archie continued to soothe. "It's just another story. She can't hurt you anymore. Just…tell me what happened."

Kathryn's breathing didn't slow down much, but eventually she seemed to have reached a safe enough distance from her own emotions that she could relate the tale intelligently. "I had been visiting one of the villagers who had a sick child. I was bringing them some of the latest medicines from our apothecary."

"Was anyone with you?"

"No," she sniffled. "I went alone…I told them it was only a mile or two into the village and I wouldn't be gone long. As I was leaving, a few of her guards jumped me. They put a sack over my head and dragged me deep into the forest. I was led through a cavern. I know because it smelled like wet moss. And I was more…angry at myself than anything else…when they pulled the bag off my head"…

"Princess Abigail," the queen droned from the tall-backed chair of her dressing table. She sat in front of several mirrors, each one perfectly positioned to show off every detail of her face. By the way she primped and preened, Abigail knew instantly who it was. She had never met Queen Regina before, but this certainly looked to be a woman who resented that Snow White was 'fairer' than she.

"Your Majesty," she said carefully, offering a cursory bow.

"My my," the queen sneered as she rose from the table and glided over, the lacy train of her black robe trailing behind her. "I must say I am impressed. Such a proper lady. I have you kidnapped and you still bow to your queen."

"Not my queen," Abigail corrected her, "but a queen nonetheless." She straightened up proudly and narrowed her gaze. "My mother always said one woman's bad behavior doesn't excuse another's. No need to compromise my own civility just because you couldn't be bothered to pen a formal invitation."

Regina's smile remained plastered on her face as she inched closer to the young woman. Abigail was certainly as sharp and spunky as the rumors made her out to be. But she wasn't completely fooled…Regina knew a bluff when she saw one. Without warning, she slapped the back of her hand across Abigail's face and grinned as the girl shrieked in pain. "My apologies," she mocked. "Next time I'll be sure to follow the rules of etiquette more closely my dear."

"What do you want?" she cried, nursing her swollen cheek.

The queen leaned in really close. "A favor."

Abigail stared at her astonished, utterly confused as to where this might be going.

"Oh!" Regina reeled back. "How rude of me. Would you like something to drink?" she waved her hand and in a black puff of smoke, a goblet appeared. "Some wine perhaps? To celebrate your upcoming nuptials?"

Abigail eyed it warily. "No thank you. What do you mean, a favor?"

Regina sighed and blinked the goblet away. "Very well – all business, no pleasure." She placed her hand on Abigail's shoulder and led her in front of her mirror. "You see dear, King George and I have this…well, this sort of agreement. And up until a few weeks ago it was going quite well."

The princess gulped, the mentioning of King George setting off a whole new set of warning bells in her head. "What about it?" This news couldn't be worse: King George and Queen Regina were working together?

"Well as you are doubtlessly aware, you and Prince James were supposed to wed and unite your kingdoms. It would have brought your father such joy you know," she jabbed her in the arm with a bitter laugh.

"My happiness brings my father joy," she countered, rubbing her arm.

"Ah heh heh…of course it does," Regina waved her off flippantly. "Anyway King George and I have the same problem. A thorn in our side for whom we share equal parts hatred and loathing."

Snow White, Abigail thought nervously. Does she know? Had she heard that she and Frederick had arranged a place for them to hide following the dwarfs' siege on the castle?

"Can you guess dear? Surely you've figured it out."

"Snow White," she whispered solemnly.

"Snow White! Yes!" Regina cackled maniacally and clapped her hands together in mock adoration. "Snow White indeed – the fairest of them all."

"What about her?" Abigail rasped, now scanning the place for an exit.

"Patience patience," Regina tsked at her as she guided her by the shoulders down to the dressing table chair and studied her many reflections. She looked down and ran her fingers through Abigail's long blonde braid. "You know, Snow has long hair like this, though black – the color of the raven."

Abigail stared up at the woman's reflection standing behind her in the mirror. So those rumors were true too – this woman was nuts! "What do you want from me?" she pleaded.

"Oh it's quite simple," Regina stepped back and started to roam which gave Abigail the opportunity to turn around in her seat and study her head on. "You see, King George and I both need Snow White out of the picture. If she continues to lure James away from his responsibilities, he'll never marry you and George will never enjoy the wealth that the kingdom of Midas will provide for his land."

"James and I aren't getting married," she protested, "my original betrothal was saved! I—"

"Shh!" Regina snapped. "Didn't that mother of yours also tell you it's rude to interrupt?" Abigail fell silent. "King George has lent me some of his finest knights to hunt down Snow. His entire legion of agents throughout all three realms is at my disposal. You see, he believes with his manpower and my magic, we will be able to rid this world of Snow White once and for all, solving both our problems. He will be able to marry his son off to you and I –" she placed a hand over her chest— "I will never again have to live in a world with her in it!"

"Regina—"

"Shh!" she got up really close this time and held Abigail's chin between her fingers. "I know what you're gonna say," she puckered up her lips and in an annoyingly sweet, mocking tone replied, "'I'm marrying Sir Frederick, Your Majesty!'"

Abigail felt her heart drop to her stomach and her face go sheet white. Suddenly all the legends, the stories, the horrors told about this evil queen were racing back to her – all those things she could supposedly do – with which of them would she threaten today, she wondered.

"See your little rescue of your shining white knight a few weeks ago was touching but was…most inconvenient. Midas is set to officially call off the betrothal so that you can be with your little kitchen serf, and because of that there's no point in George's continued hunt of James, and no hope of securing fame and fortune for his people or justice for me! So here—" she slapped her hands back down on Abigail's shoulders and shoved her back into the dressing chair— "is what we'd like for you to do: King George needs the merger re-established. If the merger can be re-drawn, our original agreement will be restored and I will gain back the resources of his implacable band of secret agents to hunt down Mistress Snow," she spat out the name as it were poison on her lips. "Therefore, you must declare your intentions before Midas that you plan on honoring the merger and going through with marriage to Prince James after all."

"Forget it!" Abigail spat. "I'll never—"

"Oh yes you will, dear. You see, here' s what you need to know about me…I always get what I want. And I have very…persuasive means of doing so," she added and waved her hand in front of the collection of mirrors. In a flash of white light, her reflections disappeared and were replaced by visions of Frederick – the same image in each mirror – her beloved knight, in full armor, mounted on his horse.

"Frederick!" she cried, her hands covering her mouth.

"Oh yes, think what will happen to poor Frederick should you refuse to cooperate."

Tears streamed down her face as she watched her true love – the man she'd loved since she was ten years old – canter across the plains. He was looking for something – no…someone. He was looking for her. The saltiness reached her lips and the tears continued to spill down her cheeks, resting in the corners of her mouth. "No…" she shook her head. "No! Please! You can't do this to us!"

"Yesss," Regina hissed, leaning over her shoulder and shifting the image of Frederick back to Abigail's reflection. "I can. In fact…I have a foolproof method of insurance," she chuckled. And the tone of her voice was so sinister, Abigail wrenched her gaze up to the woman just as the witch plunged her hand downwards toward her chest and sank, impossibly, into her body. She tried to scream, but the force of the extraction had squeezed all the air out of her lungs and all she could do was sit there, wheezing, staggering, sobbing as the evil queen's fingers reached their destination and her hand closed around her heart—

"NOOOOO!" Abigail's gut wrenching cry cut through the tension in the room with a terrifying shrill as the trauma of the memory forced her to resurface and she launched herself upwards on the couch. James was at her side instantly, tears welling in his own eyes as he reeled from the horrifying truth. Abigail hadn't wanted to betray them. Abigail had lost a love that had blossomed over an entire lifetime simply because she'd gotten in the way. He loathed himself for thinking so ill of her – how could he have believed it when he was told why George still pursued him? Why hadn't he looked into the tyrant's claims, demanded that he see Abigail, speak to her in person? He'd been so worried about what the queen would do to Snow, he'd never even considered…what she'd already done to Abigail.

She was panting against him on the couch, clutching her sweat-stained blouse to her chest, right where she'd felt her heart ripped apart from her soul. Archie looked on from his chair, his glasses fogged up with tears, his jaw dropped. For a while, no one said anything, and not a sound could be heard save for the woman's labored breathing. Eventually, Archie reclaimed a tiny bit of decorum and offered his patient a glass of water. "Here," he whispered, passing it to James. James took it while he still held his other arm securely around her shoulders.

"Drink it," he said softly to her. "It'll help."

Her breathing gradually returning to normal, she finally accepted the water and took a giant gulp. "Thank you James," she said softly.

James froze. "What?"

Her eyes were still closed, her panting still slowing. But at last, she took a huge breath and met his gaze. She stared into his eyes, full of care, regret, sorrow. She looked over at Archie – concerned and perplexed. And then…she smiled. "Thank you James," she said again, and nodded.

"Abigail?" James shifted sideways on the couch and faced her, grasping her by the shoulders and searching her eyes.

She nodded again and, though fatigued, lifted her hand to cup his cheek and flashed him a sardonic grin. "I don't want to marry you either," she said.

"Oh Gods! Abigail!" James cried and he drew her into a hug, ignoring the absolutely flabbergasted look on Archie's face.

Archie rose immediately from his chair and stepped back, giving the two of them room. Had that really just happened? Had he actually counseled someone and…and made progress? Had he helped awaken someone from a curse in which he still slept?...Would Marco be up for a drink at 11:15 in the morning?

"I'm so sorry James," Abigail cried. "I never wanted to betray you and Snow—"

"Are you kidding me?" James gave her another squeeze. "After the hell you went through? We should be apologizing to you."

"Umm," Archie found his voice and managed to squeak in an interruption. "Can I just…make sure I've got this straight? You," he pointed down at the blonde, "had your heart ripped out by the evil queen? I mean…did I hear that right? You weren't being…metaphorical?"

Abigail and James exchanged pained glances, and then turned back to Archie. "Yes," she cringed.

"It's one of her powers…well, was one anyway."

She jerked back to him, "but not anymore?"

James sighed and rose from the couch, offering her his hand and pulled her up. "We're not sure. Her magic is seriously diluted because of the curse but…" he thought painfully of Graham, "we have seen her still exerting some extra control over people who—" he stopped short, frowning down at her and not wanting to finish the sentence.

"Over people whose hearts she took," Abigail finished for him. She sighed and stepped away from them, hugging herself around the middle. "So that's it then. We're right back where we started."

"No," James stalked over to her and grabbed her hand. "No we're not. First of all, you're awake…which, come to think of it, I'm not quite sure how that happened." He looked up at Archie, perplexed, as if the poor doctor had the answer.

He didn't of course. He'd decided to focus that particular moment on wiping clean his glasses. He now lived in a town run by a mayor who had the power to rip hearts out of people's chests and control their actions. Splendid.

"Arch?" James called.

"Hmm?"

The prince chuckled. "Any idea why Abigail is awake now? I mean if the queen's still got her heart and Frederick isn't even here—"

"I – I – I don't know," Archie stuttered. "Maybe i-it has something to do with the curse itself weakening? You've told a lot of people about it now."

James's mouth tugged into a sort of half-frown. "Yeah maybe."

Then something else occurred to Archie, epiphany-like, and he stepped closer to the conversation. "Or maybe for 'Mrs. Nolan' here, or whatever you're calling yourself now dear, perhaps your happy ending wasn't about true love. Perhaps it was about redemption."

Abigail blinked, her eyes shifting from doctor to prince and back again.

Archie smiled. "The guilt you felt at betraying your friends, the desire to have them know what really happened, the need for them to understand that you wouldn't have betrayed them if you'd had a choice…that's love too, Abigail. The love of friendship."

She smiled at him gratefully, unexpectedly moved by the sentiment. She decided then and there that even if her revival was just a hypnotic-induced fluke, she would maintain that it was actually Archie's explanation for the rest of her life. "Thank you," she said quietly and stepped over to hug him. She sighed and moved back to the center of the room between the two of them. "So…now what? I mean, if the queen still has my heart, I'm still a danger to everyone—"

"No you're not," the prince insisted.

"James, you heard—"

"No you're not," he retorted, sidling up next to her. "Look, Snow and I said from the start that the only way to beat the queen is to get enough people in on it, on board, awake – whatever, so when it's time to strike, there's strength in numbers. We're not about to discount you because you have—"

"James, she can control me," she argued, shaking her hands at no one in particular. "You don't know what it's like. All it takes is one squeeze and she can make me…" she hung her head low, "do awful things."

"Abigail," James soothed, taking her hand in his. "Is she controlling you right now?"

She paused and he saw her glance around the room. "No."

"Have you ever felt controlled by her here in Storybrooke?"

Again, she paused to think. "I don't…think so."

"She can't possibly by watching you all the time. Up until today, she didn't even have enough reason to be suspicious."

"So?"

"So let's just make sure we don't give her one, ok?"

She drew back, "What?"

Archie caught on and wagged his hand at them. "Yes, yes!" he cried. "That's exactly what you need to do. Fool the queen."

Abigail whipped her head back and forth. "How?"

James stepped comically to the side and offered his arm, making an exaggerated bow. "By being the absolute happiest couple that Storybrooke has ever seen."

His absurdity made her giggle, though the bitter memories she'd just relived were still fading.

"Come on," he said a bit more seriously. "She's given us the perfect cover here. All we have to do is make sure she believes it, and she'll leave you alone."

Abigail bit her lip. "You think that'll work?" she asked.

"It has to," James said, and this time, he was definitely serious. "We have to be able to shield you and others like you when it comes time to break the curse. Otherwise, what's the point?"

Relief overwhelmed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed tight, trying not to let the waterworks start up all over again. After spending a few more minutes chatting, getting up to speed, and a few more rounds of thanks to both men in the room, Abigail finally felt, for the first time in over 30 years, that there was hope in the world again.

"Well?" James put his hands on his waist and stood back, appraising her. "What are you waiting for?"

She blinked. "Whadyou mean?"

James glanced knowingly at Archie. "Just what you think I mean. What are you waiting for?...Go find him."

Her heart soared. Frederick. She could finally be with Frederick. She could explain everything. "Do you think I'll be able to wake him?" she folded her hands together, her stomach suddenly swirling with tiny butterflies.

James just chuckled. "True love's kiss oughta do it," he winked. "You've only been waiting your whole lives."

Without a moment's more hesitation, Abigail flew out of the room, leaving Kathryn Nolan behind for good.

…

***Whew! Well that one I think surpasses "Lost and Found" in terms of length I think. The more I told of Kathryn/Abigail's story, the more I kept finding how much more there was to it! Hope you enjoyed.

The long awaited return of Storybrooke's favorite sheriff is just around the corner (though my student teacher is leaving me soon, so I actually have to go back to being productive in the classroom! Grr)

Thanks as always to all of you fantastic readers! Stay tuned for more adventures in Storybrooke and one VERY interesting Christmas tree-lighting event!***